Beautiful Young Prospect
by Furious Angel
Summary: In a moment of weakness, the Abbe de Coulmier succumbs to what he thought he never could. If you don't like slash, then don't read.


The night had descended upon Charenton. The corridors were blackened, the only light being the dancing flames mounted upon the wall which licked hungrily at the stone. The inmates had finally retired to bed, and now their anguished moans and manic laughter had died down, lost in their dreams, temporarily relieved of the inevitable boredom that came from being incarcerated.  
  
Outside, bruised purple clouds rolled ominously over the charcoal sky, suffocating the lullaby of the sparkling stars. Rain had fallen earlier, soaking the earth, giving the air that indescribable aroma of wet soil, all plants and trees vibrant with their rehydration. But now their aesthetic splendour had been thrust aside by the night, now fully upon Charenton, a milky, sickly looking moon casting its silver sheen onto the surrounding gardens.  
  
The sharp tapping of footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. In a flurry of black, the Abbe de Coulmier strode down the stone hallway. His strides were brisk, jaw set in determination, emerald eyes glittering with shards of anger. He very rarely felt the stirs of rage boil within him, but tonight, his patience had been tested yet again by the building's most notorious inmate.  
  
The Marquis de Sade. The name was infamous. The jaded old aristocrat with the backcatalogue of hideous crimes. The dirty old letch with a wandering eye and a roaming hand. The man that had written such filth that it had enraged Napoleon himself.  
  
Despite this, the young priest had found a friend in his complete polar opposite. A friend who he could sit and share wine with, laugh politely at his somewhat vulgar jokes, discuss their opposing outlooks on life. Of course, the older man always thought that he was right. And in a way, he argued his case so passionately that sometimes, the Abbe de Coulmier believed him.  
  
But tonight it had gone too far. He had seen the Marquise flee from his quarters, her face streaked with tears, and more worryingly, a striking pink stripe. It seemed that her endless devotion had put in the same place as before. At the end of the Marquis' fervent hand, making her the target of his frustrations and also his criticisms, subconsciously reminding him that she lived on the outside and he was trapped here within four stone walls. And also reminding him that she was not Madeleine.  
  
Madeleine. As he walked, Coulmier's thoughts returned to the young maid. Vibrant, friendly and beautiful, Madeleine seemed to be the one source of sanity and purity in a place where vice was rampant. The Abbe would watch her, the way she interacted with the more placid inmates, offering them smiles and cheerful greetings. The way she spoke to him, all freshness and kindness, the way she breezed past seemingly without a care in the world. To his own eternal shame, Francois found himself gazing at her for a little too long, his heart racing, the pulse eventually centring between his thighs, a tension that begged to be relieved but never was, unless after weeks of frustration he would finally relent and indulge in self- gratification that even the whip couldn't bring.  
  
He forced the thought from his mind. He had the Marquis to focus upon tonight. He knew the man wouldn't be asleep. De Sade often stayed awake until the small hours, trying to force out the final drops of inspiration that would fill one parchment, maybe two, before he could return, satisfied, to his luxurious bed.  
  
The Abbe de Coulmier approached the heavy oak door, his stomach clenched into a knot. What was he to say? He had often fallen victim to the Marquis' sharp tongue and clever turn of phrase. The old man could look at him with cool blue eyes and see what he was thinking, what he yearned for. But Coulmier could not allow him to behave the way he had any longer. He was allowed the privilege of visitors, lavish furnishings and other various luxuries, yet still he threw it all back like a spoiled child.  
  
Knuckles poised, the Abbe de Coulmier fished for the loop of keys about his waist and slowly opened the door. The click of the lock must have echoed about the room, but the Marquis did not turn around. As expected, he was sat at his desk, scribbling incessantly, quill dancing over the dry parchment. Closing the door behind him, Coulmier cleared his throat and interlaced his hands behind his back.  
  
"I think you know what I've come here for."  
  
De Sade stopped mid-sentence and smiled that cat-like smile of his to himself. He swivelled in his chair, very much like a pianist, and rose slowly to his feet.  
  
"Well, at last. Our young man of God decides to succumb to the needs that every human is born with." He raised an eyebrow. "If I do say so myself, you have come to the right place."  
  
Coulmier felt his blood boil. His heart raced, the blood thrumming insistently in his ears.  
  
"I've no time for such jesting, Marquis. I've come to tell you that as from now on, your privilege of receiving visitors will be abolished. I'm tired of the same sight every week."  
  
The older man's smile melted from his face. He took one step nearer the Abbe, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes.  
  
"Ah, I see. You've come to lecture me on how I carry out my relationships. And yet you sit there, with this insignificant little thing-" he flicked at the white collar about his neck- "killing every organ in your body." He snarled spitefully. "Apart from that heart of yours, of course. Full of compassion, full of forgiveness."  
  
Coulmier visibly bristled. "I've not come here to be insulted. I just want to help you. Can't you see that?"  
  
Taking another step towards the younger man, circling him like an owl with a mouse, de Sade now stood behind the priest, so close that the Abbe could feel his breath on his neck as he spoke.  
  
"And there I am sitting here thinking that God helps those that help themselves. How wrong I am. Why not take a leaf from my book, Abbe, and help yourself relieve that tension in you that I can see festering so energetically."  
  
Swallowing loudly, the Abbe was embarrassed to realise that his mouth had become parched, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He blamed it on the material of his heavy cassock, but deep down he knew why. He had heard of the Marquis' past. The way he ravaged and then discarded of people, forgetting them instantly, just another conquest who would ultimately fade from his memory. He finally summoned his voice, which was little more than a whisper.  
  
"Enough of this. I can see that you're obviously not going to listen."  
  
He felt the cold, slim, pale fingers of the Marquis snake around his hips, gathering folds of the black material as his hand finally came to rest upon his thigh. Cold spiders of panic crawled down Coulmier's back. He felt paralysed, rooted to the spot, as though his urge for relief had taken over him and held him fast, a skeletal hand strangling his conscience. "You say that I'm not listening," rasped de Sade, "when you're the one proclaiming your innocence. There you kneel, praying to a cold statue. Come now, if you can speak to one of them every day, surely your dear old Marquis is deserving of oral adulation?"  
  
His breath catching in his throat, Coulmier wrenched himself from the Marquis' hold, heart racing. He couldn't bear this. The man knew what he wanted, what he desired, and now teased him with it, offering it to him on a plate, knowing that this would anguish him for days, weeks perhaps.  
  
"You clearly cannot hold a conversation with me, Marquis. Must everything with you come back to this?"  
  
As soon as he saw the shift in the man's expression, the Abbe knew he had said the wrong thing.  
  
"Don't you attach this solely to me, my Cherub. Do you not think of such salacious acts in your most private moments? Obviously you do not think of me. It's not my mouth you imagine engulfing you, no, it's that dear sweet Madeleine. Tell me, Abbe, is it just her mouth you imagine deflowering?"  
  
At this verbal debasement, Coulmier finally let his voice rise.  
  
"You insult us both! How dare you speak about Mademoiselle LeCle-"  
  
"I merely speak of your thoughts. And you, a man of God.tsk tsk, Abbe. I have to admit, she is quite a comely little lass, isn't she? Just imagine what's heaving beneath that corset of hers, what lurks underneath those skirts, begging to be explored. I often wonder myself. It's only a matter of who gets there first. I lose interest when people are soiled."  
  
The Abbe had to clench his fists to stop him hitting the Marquis, his knuckles white with exertion.  
  
"Do not bring her into your fantasies, Marquis."  
  
With one swift movement, the Marquis was close enough to Coulmier to press his stomach against his own. Coulmier froze rigid, eyes blazing. The Marquis' hand rose slowly to the back of Coulmier's head, his fingers raking through the raven curls before wrenching his head back.  
  
"And sometimes our fantasies become reality, darling."  
  
With that, with predatorial haste, the Marquis planted his mouth on the shocked Abbe's, his tongue prying his lips open, demanding entry. Coulmier remained rigid, not knowing what to do, his hesitance allowing the older man to explore his mouth, before finally relenting and allowing his tongue to meet the Marquis'. He wouldn't dare open his eyes, for he knew that he would see the all-knowing glimmer in the blue orbs, and his soul would be instantly bared. Breaking away, Coulmier finally allowed himself a tortured cry, his lips still moist. His chest rose and fell with his short, shallow breaths.  
  
"We all have the strength to surprise even ourselves, Abbe. Your God will forgive you. But can you forgive yourself?"  
  
The only response the Marquis received was that of the slamming of his cell door and the diminishing footsteps of his priestly conquest. He had not achieved full resistance, but it would do for now. He pictured Coulmier returning to his quarters, ripping off his clothes, so symbolic and resistant, and reaching for his whip. The Marquis would sometimes hear the crack, and the restrained moans when Coulmier thought everyone else was asleep. He laughed wryly, before returning to sit at his desk.  
  
"Two hundred strokes, perhaps. Pious little worm." 


End file.
